dacoits, so that even in the outskirts of Rangoon houses were barricaded
at night, and the employment of private watchmen, always common in
Burmah, became almost universal. By the time I arrived there, however,
the gentle custom of dacoity had been pretty thoroughly broken up. Now
and then a lonely village in the jungle might be looted and burned, or
an English official living in some remote town might be murdered, but we
who lived in Rangoon were safe. No dacoit dared to show himself there.
At least, so I was assured.
Now I had a sweetheart in those days; and have her still--no less sweet
now that she shares my home. But then she lived in Kemendine, a
considerable village about two miles from my own home in Rangoon. I
believe that technically Kemendine lies within the municipal limits of
Rangoon, but practically it is a separate community, being cut off from
Rangoon proper by a considerable stretch of unimproved land. Kemendine
is distinctively a native community, having a large population of
Burmans, but not half a dozen white inhabitants.
I was in the habit of using my bicycle when I went out to spend an
evening with my _fiancée_. The road was lonely, but I considered it
perfectly safe.
One night, after the good-byes had been said, I started for home a
little after nine o'clock. A minute or so of easy pedalling brought me
to the railway track which bounded Kemendine village. The gates at the
crossing were closed, in anticipation of the Prome mail-train, which was
due there in a quarter of an hour. I dismounted while the Hindoo gateman
opened the gates just enough to let me through. Then I walked my wheel
across the track and remounted, receiving, as I rolled away, the
beautiful Oriental salutation, "Salaam, sahib"--Peace be with you,
sir--a pious wish strangely in contrast with the scene which was almost
immediately to follow.
On crossing the railway tracks I had left behind me the lights in the
village street, and the road before me was illuminated only by the
waning moon, which had just risen, affording me light enough to pick my
way, though not as much as I wanted before I got safely home. On my left
was the Burmese cemetery, on my right the ample grounds of a _kyaung_--a
Buddhist monastery. Of these two, the proximity of the latter was much
the more legitimate cause of anxiety, as the indiscriminate hospitality
of the _kyaungs_ makes them favorite lurking-places for bad characters.
But all I thought about the _kyaung_ just then was that the bells of its
pagodas jingled sweetly in the night wind. About half-way down the hill
the road turned at right angles from the cemetery, and skirted along the
other side of the _kyaung_. On the left was a little village called
Shan-zu. It was as still as the grave; the villagers were evidently all
asleep. Here the road began to be bordered with bushes and bamboos,
which grew denser as the road left the _kyaung_ and the village behind
and began to cross the waste-land between Kemendine and Rangoon. At the
foot of the hill the road passed over a little bridge.
Of course I didn't coast down the hill, lest I should come to grief at
the corner. But after turning the corner the road lay straight before me
clear into the town, and I let my machine go, keeping my feet on the
pedals, however, that I might have control of the wheel in case anything
should happen.
[Illustration: AS I SHOT AHEAD AN AWFUL YELL AROSE BEHIND ME.]
As I left the _kyaung_ behind and was making for the bridge, I heard a
few notes whistled softly just behind me. The sound seemed to come from
the bushes skirting the _kyaung_. I should not have thought anything of
this, however, if the same notes had not been whistled again, this time
apparently from the fields just ahead. This was evidently a call and an
answer; and it made me a little nervous, especially if the danger (if
danger there were) menaced me both in front and in the rear. I looked
around, but saw nothing more than I had seen many a night on that same
road. Not knowing anything else to do, I went steadily ahead, keeping
myself and my wheel well in hand, so as to be ready for any emergency
which might arise. Passing by some gaps in the shrubbery, I saw some
figures in the fields near the road making stealthily for the narrow
bridge which I should have to cross before I could get into the town. I
thought I could see some _dahs_ under their arms. Then I saw the danger
which threatened me. The dacoits evidently planned to intercept me at
the bridge, and cut me to pieces when I should be at a disadvantage. I
couldn't go back; for even if I had not had reason to think that some of
the gang were lurking behind me, the time I should have lost in turning
around would have put me at the mercy of my pursuers. There was only one
thing to do, and it didn't take me long to decide upon it. My wheel was
under pretty good headway, and I crowded on all the power I could to try
and reach that bridge before the dacoits got there. As I shot ahead an
awful yell arose behind me. I had been sharply watched. Immediately my
ears were greeted by a chorus of shouts from the fields on both sides of
the road.
My recollections of the next few minutes are not very clear. All I
remember is, pedalling with all my might, with those bloodthirsty cries
ringing in my ears, and my mind making incessant calculations as to the
chance of getting a bullet through my body next moment. But I heard no
shots, and probably the dacoits had no guns. I rolled on the bridge just
as they swarmed up from the fields into the road behind me.
But I was not out of the woods yet. Before I got into town I had a long
hill to climb. Now the Burman is a lightning sprinter when he chooses to
sprint, and that's just what those fellows did. Racing them down hill I
had the advantage, especially as they were running over the rough ground
in the fields. But when it came to racing up hill they rather had the
best of it, especially as they were now on the road. On a steep hill I
would have had no chance at all; but the slope was gentle, and I had a
start. I had a chance, therefore, for my life, and I made the best of
it. The thought of those _dahs_ put strength into every stroke I made.
The worst of it was, I could not tell whether I was holding my own or
not. My pursuers had stopped shouting, needing all their wind for
running; and their bare feet didn't make much noise on the ground. I was
bending low over my handle-bar, and didn't dare to risk diminishing my
speed by straightening up to look behind me even for an instant.
But when I got to the head of the hill, and was passing the grounds of
the Chief Commissioner, where there are always soldiers on guard, I felt
that I could venture to take a backward glance. Then I saw that my
pursuers had all disappeared.
Next day I wrote a letter to the Chief of Police, reporting my adventure
in detail, and having "the honor to be, sir, his most obedient servant,"
according to the prescribed formula, which whosoever observeth not shall
not gain the ear of the government of Burmah. In due course I received a
reply, in a big brown envelope, assuring me that the matter should be
promptly investigated, and having "the honor to be, sir, _my_ most
obedient servant." This was polite. The Indian government is great on
politeness. But nothing ever came of it. I suppose the Superintendent
did his best to ferret the matter out, but he had to work through native
policemen, and they may have had reasons of their own for not being too
anxious to catch the dacoits.
A VIRGINIA CAVALIER.[2]
[2] Begun in HARPER'S ROUND TABLE No. 868.
BY MOLLY ELLIOT SEAWELL.
CHAPTER XX.
George returned to Alexandria, where his regiment awaited him. He was
mad with rage and chagrin. He could have taken censure with humility,
feeling sure that whatever mistakes he had made were those of
inexperience, not a want of zeal or courage. But to be quietly
supplanted, to be asked--after all the hardships and dangers he had
passed through, and the exoneration from blame by his countrymen--to
take a humiliating place, was more than he felt he ought to bear.
When he reached Alexandria he informed his officers of the resignation
of his commission, which would be accepted in a few days; and their
reply was an address, which did what all his cares and griefs and
hardships had never done--it brought him to tears. A part of the letter
ran thus:
"SIR,--We, your most obedient and affectionate officers, beg leave
to express our great concern at the disagreeable news we have
received of your determination to resign the command of that corps
in which we have, under you, long served. The happiness we have
enjoyed and the honor we have acquired, together with the mutual
regard that has always subsisted between you and your officers,
have implanted so sensible an affection in the minds of us all that
we cannot be silent on this critical occasion.
"Your steady adherence to impartial justice, your quick
discernment and invariable regard to merit, first heightened our
natural emulation to excel. Judge, then, how sensibly we must be
affected with the loss of such an excellent commander, such a
sincere friend, such an affable companion. How great the loss of
such a man! It gives us additional sorrow, when we reflect, to
find our unhappy country will receive a loss no less irreparable
than our own. Where will it find a man so experienced in military
affairs--one so renowned for patriotism, conduct, and courage? Who
has so great a knowledge of the enemy we have to deal with? Who so
well acquainted with their situation and strength? Who so much
respected by the soldiery? Who, in short, so well able to support
the military character of Virginia? We presume to entreat you to
lead us on to assist in the glorious work of extirpating our
enemies. In you we place the most implicit confidence. Your
presence only will cause a steady firmness and vigor to actuate in
every breast, despising the greatest dangers, and thinking light
of toils and hardships, while led on by the man we know and
love."[3]
[3] This letter, which is printed in full in Marshall's _Life of
Washington_, was among the highest personal compliments ever paid
Washington. The signers were seasoned soldiers, addressing a young man
of twenty-three, under whom they had made a campaign of frightful
hardship ending in disaster. They were to be ordered to resume
operations in the spring, and it was to this young man that these
officers appealed, believing him to be essential to the proper conduct
of the campaign.
Deep indeed was the conviction which made George resist this letter; but
his reply was characteristic, "I made not this decision lightly, and all
I ask is that I may be enabled to go with you in an honorable capacity;
but to be degraded and superseded, this I cannot bear."
The Governor was very soon made aware that the soldiers bitterly
resented his treatment of their young commander; but he had gone too far
to retreat. George, as soon as his resignation was accepted, retired to
Mount Vernon; and about the time he left his regiment at Alexandria two
frigates sailed up the Potomac with General Braddock, and landed two
thousand regular troops for the spring campaign against the French and
Indians.
George spent the autumn and winter at Mount Vernon, where, until then,
he had spent but one night in fifteen months. After getting his affairs
there in some sort of order he visited his sister at Belvoir, and his
mother and Betty at Ferry Farm. All of them noticed a change in him. He
had grown more grave, and there was a singular gentleness in his
manner. His quick temper seemed to have been utterly subdued. Betty
alone spoke to him of the change she saw.
"I think, dear Betty," he answered, gently, "that no one can go through
a campaign such as I have seen without being changed and softened by it.
And then I foresee a terrible war with France and discord with the
mother-country. We are upon the threshold of great events, depend upon
it, of which no man can see the outcome."
The winter was passed in hard work at Mount Vernon. Only by ceaseless
labor could George control his restlessness. The military fever was
kindled in his veins, and do what he could, there was no subduing it,
although he controlled it. Torn between the desire to serve his country
as a military man and the sense of a personal and undeserved affront, he
scarcely knew what to do. One day, in the fever of his impatience, he
would determine to go to Alexandria and enlist as a private in his old
corps. Then reason and reflection, which were never long absent from
him, would return, and he would realize that his presence under such
circumstances would seriously impair the discipline of the corps. And
after receiving the officers' letter, and hearing what was said and done
among them, he was forced to recognize, in spite of his native modesty,
that his old troops would not tolerate that he should be in any position
which they conceived inadequate to his deserts. Captain Vanbraam told
him much of this one night when he rode from Alexandria to spend the
night with George.
"General Braddock is a great, bluff, brave, foolish, hard-drinking,
hard-driving Irishman. He does not understand the temper of our
soldiers, and has not the remotest conception of Indian fighting, which
our enemies have been clever enough to adopt. I foresee nothing but
disaster if he carries out the campaign on his present lines. There is
but one good sign. He has heard of you, Colonel Washington, and seems to
have been impressed by the devotion of your men to you. Last night he
said to me, 'Can you not contrive to get this young Colonel over to see
me? I observe one strange thing in these provincial troops: they have
exactly the same confidence in Colonel Washington now as before his
disastrous campaign, and as a soldier I know there must be some great
qualities in a commander when even defeat cannot undo him with his men,
for your private soldier is commonly a good military critic; so now, my
little Dutch Captain'--bringing his great fist down on my back like the
hammer on the anvil--'do you bring him to see me. If he will take a
place in my military family, by gad it is his.' And, my young Colonel,"
added Vanbraam, in his quiet way, "I am not so sure it is not your duty
to go, for I have a suspicion that this great swashbuckler will bring
our troops to such a pass in this campaign that only you can manage
them. So return with me to-morrow."
"Let me sleep on it," answered George, with a faint smile.
Next evening, as the General sat in his quarters at the Alexandria
Tavern, surrounded by his officers, most of them drinking and
swaggering, the General most of all, a knock came at the door, and when
it was opened Captain Vanbraam's short figure appeared, and with him
George Washington, the finest and most military figure that General
Braddock ever remembered to have seen. Something he had once heard of
the great Condé came to General Braddock's dull brain when he saw this
superb young soldier: "This man was born a captain."
When George was introduced he was received with every evidence of
respect. The General, who was a good soldier after a bad pattern, said
to him at once:
"Mr. Washington, I have much desired to see you, and will you oblige me
by giving me, later on, a full account of your last campaign?" The other
officers took the hint, and in a little while George and the General
were alone. They remained alone until two o'clock in the morning, and
when George came out of the room he had entered as a private citizen he
was first aide-de-camp on General Braddock's staff.
As he walked back to Captain Vanbraam's quarters in the dead of night,
under a wintry sky, he was almost overwhelmed with conflicting feelings.
He was full of joy that he could make the campaign in an honorable
position; but General Braddock's utter inability to comprehend what was
necessary in such fighting filled him with dread for the brave men who
were to be risked in such a venture.
Captain Vanbraam was up waiting for him. In a few words George told what
had passed.
"And now," he said, "I must be up and doing, although it is past two
o'clock. I must bid my mother good-by, and I foresee there will be no
time to do it when once I have reported, which I promised to do within
twenty-four hours. By starting now I can reach Ferry Farm by the
morning, spend an hour with her, and return here at night; so if you,
Captain, will have my horses brought, I will wake up my boy Billy"--for
although Billy was quite George's age, he remained ever his "boy."
That morning at Ferry Farm, about ten o'clock, Betty, happening to open
the parlor door, ran directly into George's arms, whom she supposed to
be forty-five miles off. Betty was speechless with amazement.
"Don't look as if you had seen a rattlesnake, Betty," cried George,
giving her a very cruel pinch, "but run, like a good child as you are,
though flighty, and tell our mother that I am here."
Before Betty could move a step in marched Madam Washington, stately and
beautiful as ever. And there were the three boys, all handsome youths,
but handsomer when they were not contrasted with the elder brother; and
then, quite gayly and as if he were a mere lad, George plunged into his
story, telling his mother that he was to make the campaign with General
Braddock as first aide-de-camp, and trying to tell her about the
officers' letter, which he took from his pocket, but, blushing very
much, was going to return it had not Betty seized it as with an eagle's
claw.
"Betty," cried George, stamping his foot, "give me back that letter!"
"No, indeed, George," answered Betty, with calm disdain. "Do not put on
any of your grand airs with me. I have heard of this letter, and I mean
to read it aloud to our mother. And you may storm and stamp and fume all
you like--'tis not of the slightest consequence."
So George, scowling, and yet forced to laugh a little, had to listen to
all the compliments paid to him read out in Betty's rich, ringing young
voice, while his mother sat and glowed with pride, and his younger
brothers hurrahed after the manner of boys; and when Betty had got
through the letter her laughing face suddenly changed to a very serious
one, and she ran to George and kissed him all over his cheeks, saying,
"Dear George, it makes me so happy that I want to both laugh and
cry--dear, dear brother!"
And George, with tender eyes, kissed Betty in return, so that she knew
how much he loved her.
When Madam Washington spoke it was in a voice strangely different from
her usually calm, musical tones. She had just got the idol of her heart
back from all his dangers, and she was loath to let him go again, and
told him so.
"But, mother," answered George, after listening to her respectfully,
"when I started upon my campaign last year you told me that you placed
me in God's keeping. The God to whom you commended me then defended me
from all harm, and I trust He will do so now. Do not you?"
Madam Washington paused, and the rare tears stole down her cheeks.
"You are right, my son," she answered, presently. "I will not say
another word to detain you, but will once more give you into the hands
of the good God to take care of for me."
That night, before twelve o'clock, George reported at Alexandria to
General Braddock as his aide.
On the 20th of April, near the time that George had set out the year
before, General Braddock began his march from Alexandria in Virginia to
the mountains of Pennsylvania, where the reduction of Fort Duquesne was
his first object. There were two magnificent regiments of crack British
troops and ten companies of Virginia troops, hardy and seasoned, and in
the highest spirits at the prospect of their young commander being with
them. They cheered him vociferously when he appeared, riding with
General Braddock, and made him blush furiously. But his face grew very
long and solemn when he saw the immense train of wagons to carry baggage
and stores which he knew were unnecessary, and the General at that very
moment was storming because there were not more.
"These," he said, "were furnished by Mr. Franklin, Postmaster-General of
Pennsylvania, and he sends me only a hundred and fifty at that."
"A hundred too many," was George's thought.
The march was inconceivably slow. Never since George could remember had
he had so much difficulty in restraining his temper as on that
celebrated march. As he said afterwards, "Every mole-hill had to be
levelled, and bridges built across every brook." General Braddock wished
to march across the trackless wilderness of the Alleghanies as he did
across the flat plains of Flanders, and he spent his time in
constructing a great military road when he should have been pushing
ahead. So slow was their progress that in reaching Winchester George was
enabled to make a detour and go to Greenway Court for a few hours. The
delight of Lord Fairfax and Lance was extreme, but in a burst of
confidence George told them the actual state of affairs.
"What you tell me," said the Earl, gravely, "determines me to go to the
low country, for if this expedition results disastrously I can be of
more use at Williamsburg than here. But, my dear George, I am concerned
for you, because you look ill. You are positively gaunt, and you look as
if you had not eaten for a week."
"Ill!" cried George, beginning to walk up and down the library, and
clinching and unclinching his fists nervously. "My lord, it is my heart
and soul that are ill. Can you think what it is to watch a General,
brave but obstinate and blind to the last degree, rushing upon disaster?
Upon my soul, sir, those English officers think, I verily believe, that
the Indians are formed into regiments and battalions, with a general
staff and a commissary, and God knows what!" And George raved a while
longer before he left to ride back to Winchester, with Billy riding
after him. This outbreak was so unlike George, he looked so strange, his
once ruddy face was so pallid at one moment and so violently flushed at
another, that the Earl and Lance each felt an unspoken dread that his
strong body might give way under the strain upon it.
George galloped back into Winchester that night. Both his horse and
Billy's were dripping wet, and as he pulled his horse almost up on his
haunches Billy said, in a queer voice:
"Hi, Marse George, d'yar blood on yo' bridle. You rid dat hoss hard, sho
'nough!"
"Hold your tongue!" shouted George, in a tone that Billy had never heard
from him before; and then, in the next minute, he said, confusedly, "I
did not mean to speak so, but my head is in a whirl; I think I must be
ill."
And as he spoke he reeled in his saddle, and would have fallen had not
Billy run forward and caught him. He staggered into the house where he
had lodgings, and got into his bed, and by midnight he was raving with
fever.
Billy had sense enough to go for Dr. Craik, George's old acquaintance,
who had volunteered as surgeon to General Braddock's staff. He was a
bright-eyed, determined-looking man, still young, but skilled in his
profession. By morning the fever was reduced, and Dr. Craik was giving
orders about the treatment as he sat by George's bedside, for the army
was to resume its march that day.
"Your attack is sharp," said the doctor, "but you have an iron
constitution, and with ordinary care you will soon be well."
George, pale and haggard, but without fever, listened to the doctor's
directions with a half smile. The troops were already on the move;
outside could be heard the steady tramp of feet, the thunder of horses'
hoofs, the roll of artillery-wagons, and the commotion of an army on the
move. In a few moments the doctor left him, saying,
"I think you will shortly be able to rejoin the army, Colonel
Washington."
"I think so too," answered George.
As soon as the doctor was out of the room George turned to Billy, and
said,
"Help me on with my clothes, and as soon as the troops are well out of
the town fetch the horses."
When the soldiers halted at noon, General Braddock, sitting under a tree
by the road-side, was asking Dr. Craik's opinion of the time that
Colonel Washington could rejoin, when around the corner of a huge
bowlder rode George with Billy behind him. He was very pale, but he
could sit his horse. He could not but laugh at the doctor's angry face,
but said, deprecatingly, to him,
"I would have fretted myself more ill had I remained at Winchester, for
I am not by nature patient, and I have been ill so little that I do not
know how to be ill."
"I see you don't," was the doctor's dry reply.